Page 78 of The Boy from Half Moon

“Listen to me, Luke. I’m coming. I am not going to let anything happen to you.”

“I didn’t do it, Tate,” he whispered, struggling not to cry.

“I believe you, Luke. I believe you. Now please, not a word more.”

“Yes.”

I disconnected, exhaling at long last, tears streaming down my face. They had my boy.

* * *

The sun rose from the east, casting its yellow and gold hue over Central Oregon’s scrubland. The area between Bend, where I lived, and Madras, where Luke lived, was a barren land filled with tumbleweed and blistering heat. I stared out the window of the Uber I’d called, my heart pounding as I prepared for battle. My personality in my everyday life was mild. My professional life, not so much.

The decision to call for an Uber was because I needed time to research who this Franklin guy from Half Moon Ranch was. While seated in the backseat, I googled the one name I had and added Half Moon to the search. My screen was populated with dozens of stories about him and the influence he held over a group of faithful followers.

Many of the stories were about him not exactly ingratiating himself with the locals. There were headlines regarding lawsuits, vandalism from both sides, and a litany of complaints about his heavy-handedness with competing businesses. In a nutshell, the man was hated county-wide.

As a criminal attorney, I had access to police records. Now that I had a last name to attach to a first, I ran a criminal search on our victim. The results delivered a laundry list of people who claimed to be his victims. Apparently, there was a long list of possible suspects who could’ve rendered him our victim of the day.

His record spoke volumes about his quality of person. Extortion, bullying government officials, fist fights, labor law violations, skipping out on bills, several bankruptcies, and on and on. The man was a louse of the highest order, and my guess was the police could interview a hundred people who would say they weren’t surprised he was dead. Now all I had to do was find out why Luke was the one arrested.

I stood in a room with detectives, staring through one-way glass at Luke. Luke was a big man, but he looked small and broken as he sat alone mere feet from me. My entire being wanted to hold him, protect him, and love him, but I had a job to do.

“So, you took the word of a sixteen-year-old kid who pointed his finger at my client, deciding him the cold-blooded murderer?” I asked, incredulously. “And that sounds perfectly plausible, in your opinion?”

“Witness claims he saw Luke fighting with the deceased. Physically fighting,” he added. The suit pointed to the one-way glass. “Look at the fucker. He’s built like a heavyweight fighter.”

“First off, his name is Luke. Second, the kid is not a fighter. He has zero professional or even recreational experience in fighting,” I stated, making damn sure they knew I had my facts ready.

“What else you got?” I demanded. “Murder weapon? Bloody clothing? Blood on my client’s clothing? DNA of my client on your victim? What you got?” I repeated.

“None of that,” one of them muttered

“Nothing?”

“We have the witness’s word,” another suit interjected. “He saw your guy kicking the victim’s ass.”

“And?” I pushed.

“And he had a reason to kill him.”

“Have any of you assholes done a background check on the deceased? You’re detectives, right? Our victim could wallpaper this goddamned room with his rap sheet.”

“So?” Numbnuts #2 asked.

“SOOO…” I spelled it out slowly. “You think the choir boy in there has the only motive to kill Mr. Lawless? Wake the fuck up, guys. Cut my guy loose right this second, or I will slap your asses with so many lawsuits you’ll be fighting them until retirement. You’ve got zilch!”

“We have a witness!” Numbnuts #1 argued.

“Call me when you have a murder weapon or one scintilla of evidence. Until then, stay the fuck away from my client,” I spat, waiting by the door to the hallway. “Now!”

“Someone’s posting bail, Mr. Fancy Pants,” the pock-faced detective stated.

“Maybe a bail being paid is happening somewhere in this town,” I responded. “But it won’t be my client. He has no reason for bail because you have nothing to hold him on or charge him with.”

“We will and he better be around when we do,” he growled.

I held out a business card. “If you find some evidence, you’ll call me before you even take your morning shit. Now unlock that door.”

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